


im a, im a, im a love killer

by heyimflamel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/F, F/M, Feelings, Flowers, Friendship, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt No Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Relationship Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Unrequited, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Tension, about me and my shitty feelings, about real life shit, but making it more understandable through the lens of hanahaki, i have a lot of issues, psychological hurt, shitty feelings, that im venting through this, vent - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyimflamel/pseuds/heyimflamel
Summary: He wishes that he would stop hurting and hurting and hurting needlessly, ceaselessly, all these lovely people who have been nothing but pleasant. But he can't. He is a killer, a cynical, heartless killer who kills simply by existing. He has no place to say anything.-a vent-fic bout my shitty feelings haha cash money
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character(s) & Original Non-Binary Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Non-Binary Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	im a, im a, im a love killer

He's a killer, he thinks to himself. A cold-blooded killer.

The first time he realises this is when he is twelve years old and he notices that sometimes, his blonde-haired friend gets a nasty cough. _'It's only natural,'_ he thinks, _'it is winter after all.'_ So he ignores it, wishes her a "get well soon", and laughs at jokes and jeers passed around the dinner table at school.

It turns out it wasn't an ordinary nasty cough, and his heart sinks deeper and deeper and deeper into his chest until it curls inward like a dead rose. The blonde confesses to him. It's a quiet affair at the back of the school. She has tissues sticking out of her pockets and dried blood on the corners of her lips. Halfway through her confession, she starts coughing and coughing and coughing. She hacks up lavender heathers, the petals spilling onto the ground with the blood and he can only stand and watch as full blossoms escape her lips and tumble out of the too-full tissue in her palm.

His stomach sinks. He tells her he does not feel the same way. She accepts and seems resigned. She knew this was going to be the answer.

He's a killer by association.

The second time is only a couple weeks later. A brunette. She's quirky and fun, annoying at the best of times, and his stomach churns as if to make butter but ends up making bile instead as she starts coughing into tissues and waving off his concerns. She confesses. Red carnations mix with the red blood to the point where he cannot see where the petal ends and the blood starts. It's only petals, with the brunette. He tells her he doesn't feel the same. She smiles, nods, and the routine clicks back into place.

((He pours over flowers and meanings for hours into the night. He stays up until the break of dawn writing and rewriting, reciting names and meanings to himself like a madman on the brink of something extraordinary. It's the least he can do, after all, because he is not the one who has to choke on petals and thorns and blood for him))

He thinks it may never be enough. He knows it will never be enough.

He is thirteen in the next year, smiling and happy with his friends and simply content with life.

((The guilts nips at his heels when he sees the other two stay away from him, running as if from an incurable disease they are trying not to catch. He doesn't blame them.))

But then, of course, another friend confesses. He doesn't even notice the signs. He doesn't notice the dry rasp added to his friend's voice, or the coughing and hacking, or the extra tissues stuffed between workbooks in a book bag.

He finds out through friends. Through deduction. When his friend confesses, he thinks it is wise that they did it over text. The next time he sees them there are white rose petals poorly hidden in the zipper of his book bag. There's a spot of blood on one of the torn petals. He looks away at the sight and powers forward.

The boy--the killer--never weeps nor mourns, for he knows he is just a fleeting fancy _((he hopes, he hopes oh how he hopes with all his heart that he is simply a mere crush that will come and go like a warm summer breeze, for his friends suffer simply because he is too broken, too stupid, too insensitive to fall so harshly for someone. Too dumb, too guarded, to even consider that possibility. He is too broken to love))._ Every time he sees flowers they make him sick. He yells at himself for not loving, for not being capable of love and finds that he would rather choke on a million flowers than cause that pain for his friends.

He is fourteen and he has almost killed three of his friends. He wonders how they can even stand to be in the same building, in the same classroom, as him at all. He wonders.

((He never asks))

There are others that he sees, sometimes. He becomes hypervigilant and notices even the smallest of coughs or sneezes. He watches as a ginger girl, so joyful and kind, coughs up flowers for the blonde from two years ago. He swallows the ball in his throat and hopes.

There are others he sees. He notices. Those who he can't pin down he freaks about. What if it's me? What if I'm killing someone **again** and I can't even do _anything--_

He calms. He stills.

Time ticks away.

He is fifteen when he gets more confessions. First is a sweet boy he met online. Shy. Unassuming. He thought it could work, and when the boy smiled he was content. But he did not have a crush on him. Did not love him the way he should. He lets him down as softly as he can.

He sees the boy coughing up pink camellias on an Instagram live stream and shuts down completely.

His toll is up to four. Four near-deaths. Four near-murders. He is disgusting.

He has fun at this place. No one judges here. Everyone has fun. He ends up running into a person. They're kind, friends with the brunette who is now friends with him again. He doesn't know why. He still has vivid nightmares of red carnations and dripping blood spurting out of her eyes and ears and mouth and nose. Still loses his breath and chokes on nothing when he thinks about it. Still drowns drowns drowns whenever he sees the colour red.

He ends up hanging out a lot with the person. They update their Instagram story later that day. His stomach sinks further as he hopes hopes hopes ((that's all he can do. Hope. Dream. Never does it come true, but he hopes)) that it isn't him. A couple of days later, they confess. He watches them post a depressing Instagram story a week later with magenta zinnias covering the screen like a wallpaper.

He doesn't leave his room for three days.

He has killed another. He should be locked away.

There's another they that he befriends. They are parental and soft, kind but firm when need be and have a bright smile. He likes being friends with them. He knows he shouldn't get to close, but it is in his nature to come close enough to scald. He should have learned from past mistakes. He does not.

The friend confesses. He rejects again. A seemingly endless loop that he wants to end quickly, he can't--

It's funny. They are the ones coughing up narcissus, but he is the one who feels as though thorns are tearing his neck up raw from the inside.

Another person confesses. A close friend. She is funny. She is sweet. She is not someone he would date, because she is someone he cannot see himself with. She confesses. The cycle repeats. He cries and screams over images of her eyes and mouth spilling over with moss rosebuds and he never stops. The kill count goes up. He never speaks of it to anyone.

His kill count goes up to 7.

Soon after, he meets him. He's funny, kind, friendly. He is personable, and he thinks he might be willing to try it out. The guy confesses, he accepts. They are in a relationship. It doesn't last long because he knows, he _knows_ deep inside that this is not real. This is not what he wants. This is drawing out the inevitable. He starts coughing up little petals, and then suddenly full-blown flowers, snapdragons, within the same half-day. He watches as he changes his name, and then suddenly he becomes a she and then she drops off the app completely as if wiped off the face of the Earth.

It's his fault, his fault, his fault, his _fault_ for being so fucking _**defective**_ like a broken doll. He can't love and all he is is a _cold-blooded **killer** who takes and takes and takes and never ever gives back._

He wishes that he would stop hurting and hurting and hurting needlessly, ceaselessly, all these lovely people who have been nothing but pleasant. But he can't. He is a killer, a cynical, heartless killer who kills simply by existing. He has no place to say anything.

He wishes to jump off the mountain. His family is there. He cannot. He steps away from the ledge and walks down the grassy hills to the bottom. He breathes. He stares.

He doesn't deserve to breathe so easily.

**Author's Note:**

> Lavender Heathers = admiration, solitude  
> Red Carnations = my heart aches for you, admiration  
> White Roses = innocence and purity, i am worthy of you, you're heavenly, secrecy and silence  
> Pink Camellias = longing for you  
> Magenta Zinnias = lasting affection  
> Narcissus = egotism, formality, stay as sweet as you are  
> Moss Rosebuds = confessions of love  
> Snapdragons = deception, gracious lady


End file.
